Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  Rouge straightened and smiled, bringing dimples to her cheeks. “Forgive me, Sire, but you have only yourself to blame for the fashion. Mademoiselle de Fontanges…”

  Louis laughed delightedly. “You have a bold and saucy tongue! But had I known that Fontanges—or at least her foolish headdress—would continue to dominate this court long after she had lost her hold on my heart, I should have exiled her at the very moment I first clapped eyes upon her!”

  “You have only to decree, Sire, and your loyal subjects will dress to suit your pleasure.”

  “Indeed. And my pleasure is to see my courtiers—and their ladies—dressed well.”

  One of the king’s ministers stepped forward and bowed deferentially. “Sire, I have already informed the court of your pleasure regarding the festivities surrounding the return to health of your son, Monseigneur, Le Grand Dauphin.”

  Louis nodded. “Yes. It was a bad winter. But spring is here, my son has been restored, and I wish to be surrounded by beauty. I trust, Torcy, that you have made it quite clear—quite clear!—that I expect all in attendance at the festivities to furnish themselves with new clothes.” Louis reached out and fingered the pale blond curl on Rouge’s shoulder. “Although,” he said softly, “if all the women looked like you, I should not care if they wore rags! What is your name?”

  “Mademoiselle Marie-Rouge de Tournières, Sire.”

  “And your family? Is your mother as charming as you are?”

  “My mother is dead. She was a Desportes, on her father’s side. My father is Chrétien Louis, Marquis de Tournières.”

  “Ah yes. Desportes, your cousin, spoke to me on his behalf. I’m pleased that we were able at last to find room for you here at Versailles, rather than in the town. Is that why we have not seen you often in our presence until now?”

  “No, Sire. I’ve spent most of my time at Sans-Souci, our estate in Orléanais, near Montoire. Since my mother’s death, three years ago, the burden of running the château has fallen on my shoulders.”

  “Hélas! But they are such lovely shoulders… Were I younger, mademoiselle…” Louis’s dark eyes sparkled. “Well, now that you’re here, I look forward to your continuing presence at court. A little supper, perhaps, at Monseigneur’s party? The charm of young women brings an old man joy.”

  Rouge curtsied again. “There is so much to do at home, Sire. I had hoped to have your leave to retire from Versailles within the week. Indeed, my visit here was only to remind my father of his obligations to his tenants, and to urge him to follow my example.”

  The king’s brow darkened. “I should find it fort mauvais, very bad, mademoiselle, were you to quit the court before Monseigneur’s festivities! I am an old man, God knows”—he brushed aside the bleats of protest from several courtiers—“an old man, who may not live much longer. Monseigneur, my son, will be your king! Is this how you honor him? Fort mauvais, mademoiselle!” Eyes flashing in anger, he turned to one of his ministers. “Come, Torcy! I faint with hunger!”

  “Sire.” Trembling at his majestic presence, Rouge sank into an obedient curtsy, her gray eyes cast down, as the king and his entourage swept from the galerie. She dared not rise until she had heard the closing of the heavy doors at the end of the long room.

  There was a low laugh. “Fort mauvais, mademoiselle. You’ve angered the king. But at least he was able to use his favorite turn of phrase!”

  Startled, Rouge looked up to see a handsome courtier standing before her. He was dressed splendidly from his curly black wig to the silver buckles on his shoes. A bright sash encircled the waist of his broad-shouldered coat, and his ceremonial sword was crusted with jewels. His eyes, deep blue in a well-tanned face, admired her openly. “His majesty has good taste. I shouldn’t care for you to return home too soon.”

  She smiled, accepting his praise without humility, and a small dimple appeared beside her beauty mark. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss the king’s petit couvert?”

  “The king will not miss me. And I shall be twice as attentive tomorrow, so he will snap his fingers and insist that I hand him his napkin. Which will earn me the right to snub the Duc de Saint-Simon for a whole week!”

  Rouge laughed. “Yet you have given up your place with the king today. What do you hope to earn in return?”

  He smiled, revealing even white teeth. “I’ve seen you from afar, Marie-Rouge de Tournières, and didn’t even know your name. And now you speak to me, you smile upon me. My joy is complete.”

  “And you are content?”

  “For today. Tomorrow I might ask for more!”

  “And if I…refuse?”

  “I should find it fort mauvais.”

  She laughed again. “You’re a wicked man, monsieur. And I don’t even know your name.”

  He bowed low, making a flourish with his tricorn so the plumes brushed the floor. “Comte Arsène Henri de Falconet. At your service, mademoiselle.”

  “Monsieur.” She nodded, acknowledging his salute.

  “How may I serve you, my charming creature? Will you come for a drive in my coach this afternoon?”

  “Alas. My day is filled.”

  “Supper, then. Tonight.”

  Despite the size of Versailles, Rouge knew that most courtiers were allotted no more than a small room or two. Supper in such crowded quarters might turn out to be embarrassingly intimate. She smiled but asked cautiously, “In your bedchamber, here in the palace, monsieur?”

  “Not at all, mademoiselle. I have a small hôtel besides, in the town just outside Versailles. I shall entertain you in my drawing room. Of course, perhaps later…?”

  “But what if I’m a woman of virtue?”

  “In this court? With that face and form?” Arsène laughed. “But if that’s how you wish the game to be played, you shall find me a gentleman at supper, asking for nothing save the sweetness of your presence.”

  She giggled. “In this court?” she teased. “You wouldn’t even ask for a kiss? And you a brave cavalier?”

  His black eyebrows knotted into a scowl. “Don’t mock me, mademoiselle! I told you I’ve watched you from afar. You’re a pretty coquette, and you break the hearts of all the men who traffic with you. But I don’t intend to be a passing admirer. I’ll play your game for now, but when the time comes, I’ll want more than just a kiss. Much more!”

  Curse him! she thought. For a moment, she’d found him charming: more interesting, more worth encouraging than any man she’d met so far at Versailles. But she wasn’t about to give herself away for a few sweet words and supper! Her gray eyes were like cold steel. “Then sup alone, monsieur,” she said, and sped out of the hall, leaving him still frowning in consternation.

  Amongst the fires of war, Anjele discovers that love is truly blind.

  Heaven in a Wildflower

  © 2013 Patricia Hagan

  Brett Cody was Anjele Sinclair’s first love. Under the hot Louisiana sun, they discovered each other, body and soul. Torn from his arms and sent to a boarding school in England, it is four long years before she returns to her beloved home. But when she discovers that Brett is fighting for the hated Yankees, Anjele believes their love can never be.

  Then the unthinkable happens. Her father is murdered, and an injury from his attackers leaves Anjele blind. Struggling to save her beloved home and heritage, Anjele relies on the help and support of a stranger—a man she grows to love. But when she discovers that man is none other than Brett, Anjele must decide if she can accept the love of an enemy.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Heaven in a Wildflower:

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Summer, 1858

  A warm breeze wafted through the open French doors leading to the porch. Wearing a thin chemise and pantalets, Anjele stood just inside her room. She was supposed to be taking a nap, or at least lying down, because it was the season of the ague, or yellow fever. People believed resting in the hottest part of the day helped prevent the disease, but going to bed was the last thing she f
elt like doing in such miserable heat.

  The shade of the spreading oaks, dripping with shadowy moss, looked cool and inviting along the avenue leading to the sleepy river beyond. She longed for a swim, but not in the thick, brown waters of the serpentine Mississippi. It was her secret place she yearned for, the hidden freshwater pool she and Simona and Emalee had discovered a few years ago. Hidden in the fringes of Bayou Perot, it was fed by an underground spring that kept the water from becoming stagnant. Best of all, they had never seen a snake or an alligator there.

  Sadly, as she stood there enjoying the view, she was struck once more with awareness of how time was running out to enjoy the things she loved on the plantation. Since her sixteenth birthday the month before, when the formal announcement of her engagement to Raymond Duval was made, a feeling of desperation had descended. All her life, she’d been well aware of the pact between their parents, but it wasn’t till it became official and a wedding date set for Christmas that the actuality had soaked in. Now, thinking about moving into New Orleans, leaving this beloved place to return only for visits, made her stomach knot with dread.

  She had grown up loving to spend as much time as possible traipsing after her father, whom she adored. He had taught her to ride a horse and shoot a gun as well as any man—unknown to her mother, of course, who didn’t approve of her learning masculine skills. So it had become a cherished secret between her father and her, only now she had to fit in those times around her music.

  Ida Duval, Raymond’s mother, insisted Anjele start learning to play the piano, something Anjele had resisted in the past. Miss Ida felt it was a nice touch for a hostess to be able to entertain her guests after dinner and, since Anjele’s mother was much too busy to give Anjele lessons, Mrs. Melora Rabine was sent twice a week to teach.

  Anjele smiled to think how surprised everyone was to discover she had a natural talent. In no time at all, she was able to play anything by ear, after hearing the melody only once or twice. But Claudia, her adopted sister, had been studying for years and accused her of having been practicing secretly, declaring it was not possible to master the piano so fast. Anjele neither denied nor confirmed.

  Long ago, she’d learned there was no getting along with Claudia.

  Ida also sent someone to instruct in needlework, and Twyla turned a deaf ear to Anjele’s protests. Anjele suspected the real reason her mother was going along with everything Ida wanted was to keep her busy so she wouldn’t have time to slip away and be with Simona and Emalee. Acadian girls. Her mother didn’t approve of them but wasn’t as vocal as Claudia, who warned that Ida Duval would have a fit if she knew Anjele socialized with the lower classes.

  Anjele was well aware that lots of other people looked down their noses at the Acadians due to the mixed heritage of some, but it didn’t matter one bit to her. She felt sorry for the way their ancestors, French Canadians, had been driven from their colony of Acadia by the British, forcing them to find new homes in unfamiliar territories. Many, like the families of Emalee and Simona, had chosen to settle in the fertile bayou lands of southern Louisiana. They lived in small, compact, self-contained communities deep in the swamps. When they sought work, it was in the cane or cotton fields. But, unlike the Negro slaves, the Cajuns were paid wages and free to leave at quitting time to return to their bayou homes.

  Anjele envied them their happy, carefree lives as she listened to Emalee and Simona and the other girls describe the merriment that went on in their compounds as they cooked their supper. Cauldrons of turtle soup or crawfish gumbo bubbled deliciously while fiddlers played rousing Cajun tunes in an effort to ease their weary spirits after a hard day. They would sing, and sometimes, on the banks of the shadow-silent waters of the mysterious bayou, and even though she wasn’t allowed, Anjele longed to be a part of it all.

  Two years ago, Simona had married, when she was only fourteen. But that hadn’t stopped her from spending time with Anjele whenever possible. Anjele would slip down to the edge of the cane fields and wait till the overseer wasn’t looking, so both Simona and Emalee could dart away. The trio would then disappear into the moss-shrouded forest for a few stolen hours at their secret pool, treasured memories that now filled Anjele with longing on the hot and humid afternoon.

  Suddenly she was torn from reverie by the sound of the door from the outside hall opening. She watched as Claudia crept stealthily into the room. Seeing Anjele’s empty bed, she glanced about wildly, spotting her at the open French doors. “You’re supposed to rest until two o’clock, and it’s only half past one,” she said sharply.

  “So are you,” Anjele reminded her. Dear Lord, she couldn’t remember a time in her life when they weren’t sparring. She honestly felt she had tried through the years to get along, but it was a hopeless situation. Claudia despised her and always would.

  Claudia’s ice blue eyes flashed with defiance as she lifted her chin and smiled gloatingly. “Mother said I could go with her to take tea at Miss Ida’s. We’re going to be leaving soon.” She was also wearing a chemise but several ruffled petticoats covered her pantalets. She crossed the room to a large mahogany armoire and jerked open the mirrored doors.

  Anjele, stunned by her nerve, demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Claudia ignored her as she pawed impatiently through the gowns hanging inside till she found what she was looking for and yanked it out in triumph.

  “I’m wearing this. It’s cooler than anything I have, and it will look better on me than you, anyway.”

  Anjele shook her head in firm denial. “I’m wearing that to Rebecca Saunders’s birthday ball tonight.”

  “So? Wear it. We’ll be home around five.” Draping the garment over her arm, she started out.

  Anjele ran to block her path. She hated to have an argument, but every time Claudia borrowed her clothes, they were brought back mussed. And the dress was a favorite for the sweltering weather—a cool, pale green color, fashioned of light lace and chiffon and draped off the shoulder with a scooped bodice.

  She knew Claudia was only using the heat as an excuse. The real reason was her larger bosom, which would be more revealing in Anjele’s smaller bodice—and all for Raymond’s benefit. Claudia had never made a secret of the way she felt about him. Not that Anjele was jealous. Actually, it concerned her that she wasn’t.

  Anjele repeated her objection, adding, in an effort to pacify, “I’ll be glad to let you wear it another time.”

  Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll be sorry.”

  “You have other dresses.” She bit back the impulse to point out that Claudia actually had a much nicer wardrobe than she did. It was merely another way her mother made sure she could not be accused of favoring her natural daughter over the adopted one.

  “It’s because of Raymond, isn’t it?” Claudia challenged. “You’re afraid he’ll think I’m prettier than you, so you don’t want me to look nice.”

  Quietly, Anjele yielded, “You are prettier than me, Claudia.” And she believed that to be so. Anjele envied her cousin’s naturally curly golden-blond hair and limpid blue eyes, while thinking her own appearance to be a bit on the plain side.

  Her mother said it was because she didn’t try to be glamorous, which was true. Anjele much preferred her long hair blowing in the breeze when she went riding, and it was too much trouble to sponge her skin with rosewater and lemon juice. She saw nothing wrong with tanned flesh and sunburned cheeks.

  Claudia was getting angrier by the minute. “If I’m so pretty, then how come it’s you Raymond is going to marry?”

  Anjele sighed and shook her head, wondering once more why it had to be this way between them. Claudia knew as well as she how it all came to be but pushed back impatience as she reminded, “Ida and Vinson have been friends with Momma and Poppa forever. It was always understood.”

  “But you don’t love him…” Her words trailed off as Jobie, the little servant girl, appeared in the doorway.

  Looking fearfully from one to th
e other, Jobie finally held out the tray she was carrying and said to Anjele, “I got yo’ lemonade, missy.”

  Anjele stepped back long enough to allow her to place it on the table by the window but made sure Claudia did not rush by with the dress.

  When they were once more alone, Anjele saw no need to continue the subject of Raymond and tried to end the conversation. She held out her hands to take the garment. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you borrow it, Claudia. Not this time.”

  Claudia was silent for a moment, then whirled around as she cried, “Very well. But if I can’t wear it, neither will you. Not tonight, anyway.”

  Before Anjele could make a move to stop her, she ran to where Jobie had left the pitcher of lemonade and quickly snatched it up to pour the liquid on the dress.

  Promise of Summer

  Louisa Rawlings

  From pickpocket to heiress…to bride?

  Pickpocket Topaze Benoite trembles in fear as she stands in front of the man who has just caught her in the act. His cold blue eyes promise retribution, but he has something more dangerous in mind than a French prison—he wants her to impersonate the missing heiress Veronique de Chalotais.

  Through weeks of rigorous training that transform Topaze from a street urchin to a refined noblewoman, she finds herself drawn to Lucien, thrilled by his seductive presence, his touch, his devil’s smile.

  But his desire for revenge against his family seems to color his every mood, even when their mutual desire ripens into passion. Is he interested in using her only when it’s convenient, then disposing of her when he has achieved his goals? Or will their love endure long past summer’s end?

  This Retro Romance reprint was originally published in August, 1989 by Warner Books.

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